Jump
by mynameisweird
Summary: The tips of her toes were on the cemented edge. She barely felt the wind around her give her a hesitant push to go ahead. "You're doing it wrong," a voice called behind her, "You're supposed to have a bungee cord." Fem!DenmarkxNorway, Fem!DenmarkxPrussia


**Chapter 1: Red and White**

**Song: .com/watch?v=dNkKl9yh5fI**

Amelia Jones hated rain.

She hated the chilling drops trailing down her tan back, daring her to scratch them away. She flinched at the squelch in her shoes and blood red toes prickling with numbness.

But she kept running, she told herself. She wouldn't be a good friend if she didn't.

Dirty blonde hair pressed against her cheek and arms wrapped tightly around her, her sapphire eyes could only focus on the white building in front of her.

Her hands, the same crimson color as that of her toes, clutched tight to the iPhone within her grasps.

She wouldn't dare call Mathilde again to tell her she was close by. The fear of hearing a foreign voice made her tremble. The thought of what accompanied that voice make her meal from McDonald's want to empty itself.

Hands pressed against cool glass, she pushed the door open, ignoring the cold brush of air that would always hit a person when they walked into a building of life and death. Already feeling her dark navy tank-top become second skin against her, she gave a small shudder before heading toward the nurse.

"ER."

"Ma'am, may I help you with something?"

"ER or intensive care unit or whatever the hell it's called," the loud American snapped, "Mathilde Kohler. Where is she?"

She had no room to feel sorry for the terrified woman as she turned to her computer and began to bang her fingers against the computer keys. Eyes darted swiftly at the screen in front of her before dark green irises met those of an angry blue.

"Third floor Intensive—"

Her feet moved to their own accord. She raced the metal stares, pushing 3W door open and taking a quick glance at the directions in front of her. She barely apologized to doctors and nurses as she ran past them, mindful of small children and wheelchair-clad elderlies.

Sweat and salt filled her nose, wincing softly at the scent of copper.

But her feet didn't slow.

If the British freak was right about anything, she always ran into uncharted territories without thinking things through.

ICU blared in front of her as she was greeted to a square lounge with gray tinted walls. She passed mothers holding pale children, men with soaked bandages, or trembling teenagers with pupils exceeding their normal size.

Her eyes scanned the room, ignoring any calls if she was a nurse or doctor.

A phone rings. Johnson and Caleb are called to room 314W.

Margaret is shouting for more blankets.

Kimberly and Nora are called as next in line.

Mathilde moves herself away from the others.

"Mathilde," Amelia can only whisper as she rushes toward the brown-haired teen. Her meal is tempted once more to leave her stomach at the sight of her best friend.

Light brown hair tangled itself in tiny knots, bits of it plastered together with black substance. Jeans contained their fading scratch marks with strings of red forming delicate art-like webs. Shoes were gone and feet stained with grass and soil. Arms contained the same web-like pattern as her jeans, a much darker shade of crimson to form the color of tar.

But it was her face that the American girl had to prevent herself from running from. Slowly, through crusted bangs, Mathilde lifted her head.

Skin softly torn, bruised lips, and a bandaged left eye. Body frame continued to tremble and layers of color from her skin continued to fade every second.

"Amy," she whispered and it was barely a second before her friend held her close, mindful of the injuries.

"Mathilde…what…where is…?"

Despite the pain, the Danish girl held her friend tighter as the salt stung her wounds. No sobs, no anguished cry, nothing loud and boisterous that rang louder than anything in the hectic lounge. Amelia softly pulled away, cupping the cheeks gently in her hands as she unsuccessfully wiped the tears from those darkened eyes.

"Dad and Berwald are coming," she monotonously answered, features changing to one void of emotion even as the tears continued falling. Amelia only gathered her in her arms, stroking any knots she could untangle as her hands were stained with the same crimson red that seemed to encompass her friend.

Mathilde only buried her forehead into the warm shoulder as her eyes remained fixed on her stained hands. She watched the cracks in the dried copper-smelling liquid form and those still raw with moisture trail down her wrist in small veins as if they were in some fuckin' race. Breathing in another choked gulp of air, she had never smelled anything so sweet in her life.


End file.
